The Cairo Codex (43 page)

“You don’t know how many times I wanted to correct your assumptions, especially at the Red Sea. A few times I started to, but just couldn’t carry it off.”

“What amazes me, Nasser, is that you had to have known I would talk with my father eventually. How did you plan to handle it then?” She tilted her head, aware that her whole face must be a landscape of puzzlement and anguish.

“I ran through several scenarios, including the one where he tells you that he can never remember all of his students and that I might have been a student of his. That was my most hopeful fantasy. I kept telling myself I would tell you before you talked with him and you would forgive me. The worst of all scenarios is the one before us now.” His voice revealed his resignation and hopelessness.

“I’m afraid you’re right. This scenario is complicated. But
why
, Nasser?” She knew she was wearing her heart on her sleeve, making herself vulnerable, but she needed to know there’d been something there that she hadn’t imagined.

“Perhaps to meet a beautiful woman,” he began weakly. “I’d heard you were at the hotel, and as I walked toward you it popped into my mind as the easiest introduction. I didn’t think it through.”

“Even though it wasn’t true?”

He flinched and corrected her. “Not entirely true.”

“Do you often lie so casually? ” Her voice was firm once again, determined, sure.

“If you’re asking how I negotiate my way through life, how often I tell small lies to ease my path, I’m not sure I know. Does anyone? The position you’re taking, Justine, is a hard one. I thought you valued flexibility and forgiveness.”

“I seem to value the truth even more.” She found her own voice strangely theatrical.
Am I being childish?

“I hope in the long run you can live up to your own standards.” His eyes, as well as his words, challenged her now.

She was momentarily taken aback.
Mother suggested as much
. Was there ever a situation in which she would lie? Of course there was. She could think of several. “I know I’m sounding moralistic, but I have to think about other aspects of our relationship—what is true, what isn’t.”

“In the service of full disclosure, I have something else to tell you. Your beauty wasn’t the only seduction, at least after the first several days.” He was difficult to read now—his renewed strength was not defensive, but something else.

Justine was physically jolted by the realization that she had almost bought the “easy introduction to a beautiful woman” line. Before he could continue, she saw the story laid before her mind’s eye. Her eyes narrowed. “It has something to do with the Nazareth Essenes, doesn’t it? And the codex.”

“It does.” He turned toward the waiter, encouraging him to return to the table. “We’ll have two cups of tea.
Shukran
.” The waiter jotted a few words on his pad and headed for the kitchen.

“The Essenes have everything to gain and nothing to lose by the revelations in this codex, Nasser. Why couldn’t you tell me?”
Did he steal it?

“After you told me about the codex, my task was to protect you and to make sure the codex came to light. I followed you out of Alexandria on your way back to Cairo, but drove on when the monks appeared and the men in the Mercedes rushed off. I was prepared to stop.”

“You were there? And you didn’t stop?” She paused, the past days churning in her mind. “When I told you about the incident at the Red Sea, you already knew. Nasser, you already knew . . .”

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he confessed. “In retrospect, I was embarrassed that I didn’t stop. Justine, the codex is so important. We hope to learn something about Mary’s origins as an Essene, perhaps more about Jesus himself. If Jesus is the Essene Teacher of Righteousness, that knowledge would validate our long struggle for legitimacy.” Nasser was now himself again, assured, articulate. Redirected by his own mission.

“You didn’t do all that well in protecting me, did you? I find it disturbing that you were not far behind us and yet waited until we were run off the road. We might have been killed. But perhaps we have both failed in our mission,” she said with disdain. “The codex has been stolen.”

“Stolen? How could that happen?” he demanded, his expression outraged. “Do you have a copy?”

She watched him closely.
Is he really surprised?
“We have a photographed copy. And frankly, I don’t know how it could have been stolen. It was in Mostafa’s safe and the Ministry claimed security was top-notch.”
Well, almost.

“Whatever that means,” Nasser said sarcastically. “But you have a copy and have been able to translate most of it?” As if he realized he sounded overeager, he cleared his throat. “And you’re safe, Justine. That is more important to me than the fate of the codex.” The tea arrived and Nasser busied himself attending to their preferences: three spoons of sugar for himself, lemon for her.

Justine thought back over the preceding months. On the sidewalk below the large picture window, young women wearing headscarves walked in both directions, holding hands and talking rapidly. She paid close attention to the nonsensical ensembles . . . tight jeans and spike heels. Matching colors, designer sunglasses. She turned back to Nasser. “Who are you, Nasser? What has our relationship been to you?” Her voice felt hollow.

“If I may, Justine . . . I’m a man who found an easy, but granted, untruthful, entrée into a relationship with a beautiful, smart woman. I’m also a committed man of beliefs who later found that by protecting you, I was furthering my own mission. Ultimately, I’m the man who fell in love with Dr. Justine Jenner. That’s who I am.” For the first time since his arrival this afternoon, that crooked grin slowly emerged.

Justine could feel herself dissolving; an unexpected ripple of desire ran down her back and into her thighs. She lowered her hands below the table and clenched her fists to fight against the surrender her body was more than willing to make.

As he sensed what was happening to her, his grin widened into a smile. “Can you ever forgive me, Justine? Please.”

His timing is artful. Some men seem to think that ‘love’ is the magic word that erases everything else.
She knew she had to wrest herself away from this conversation. To think. She didn’t trust her own capacity to resist his charms. “I may be able to forgive you as a person, as a human being . . . perhaps. But forgive you as a lover?” She shook her head. “You were on the desert road that night when my life was in danger. That’s a greater indiscretion than any other lie.”

“Let me get this straight.” Nasser allowed disbelief to crawl into his voice. “You’re telling me our relationship is over? That taking more time isn’t going to make you change your mind? Does it make any difference that I love you?” Dark gray crept into his blue eyes.

“Of course it does. And I’m not sure that I don’t love you. But this relationship could never work now.”

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
, J
USTINE AND
Andrea were summoned to a meeting of religious leaders to be held in the conference room of the Sultan Hassan Mosque. It was a Friday, an unusual day for any meeting, business or otherwise.

The streets of Cairo were quiet on Friday mornings, as though an evacuation notice had emptied the city. One or two cars moved with lonely self-consciousness. Friday was the Muslim holy day, and businesses, government offices, and schools were closed. As a rule, Christians did not work on these days either, but congregated as families in havens like the Church of Our Blessed Virgin on the Nile in Maadi, where benches and fountains adorned a circular terrace above stairs that descended to the Nile below. Legend had it that the Holy Family had left for Upper Egypt from the bottom of those very stairs. Or so Michael had told Justine on the day of the earthquake.

Mosques, of course, were open on Fridays. Throughout Cairo, men gathered well before noon for the most important prayer day of the week. Row upon row of Muslim men knelt on green and red mats in long alleyways, facing east toward Mecca. Throughout Cairo, believers listened to the rhythmic calls of Imams chanting Koran surahs over strategically placed loudspeakers. Other men and women, seemingly oblivious to the aura of worship nearby, went about their daily lives, selling newspapers, flowers, roasted corn, and foul, thinly sliced lamb. Parallel worlds, parallel lives; neither embarrassed by the other.

The Sultan Hassan Mosque was the most exotic of them all. The towering granite walls of the entry hall led upward into the cool inner chambers of fourteenth-century Mamluk life, turning twice again before entering a secluded courtyard of worn marble. A three-tiered, white marble fountain formed the circular centerpiece of this sheltered chamber, its waters flowing from the top into a pool that served as a bath for visiting worshipers. A giant chandelier of blue glass towered over the fountain. Minutes before the midday call to prayer, men knelt at the fountain to purify themselves, washing their hands, forearms, and faces. This intimate courtyard led into the main hall of the mosque.

Justine parked her newly acquired Suzuki on a curb usually cluttered with tour buses, and she and Andrea headed toward the side door of the mosque. They arrived to find Ibrahim already sitting near the window, the afternoon sun accentuating his weathered face and untamed eyebrows. Omar Mostafa sat at a long table near six cups and saucers.

Within moments, Father Zein Hakeem entered with a shorter man with a long beard and flowing black robe. When Father Zein spotted Justine, he broke into a broad smile and steered the shorter man toward her, stopping to acknowledge his old friend Ibrahim.

“Dr. Jenner, I’d like for you to meet the Imam Mohammad El Awady from Al Azhar University.” It was more of a pronouncement than an introduction.

Justine bowed slightly, extending her hand to the Imam, who reluctantly touched, but did not grasp or take hold of, the offering. Mostafa suggested they take their seats.

“Where is Isaac? And Amir?” Justine whispered to Andrea.

“I don’t know,” Andrea whispered in return as she turned her attention toward Mostafa. “I don’t even know why we’re here.”

“Let me clarify the purpose of our meeting,” began Mostafa. “We’ve invited the honorable Imam El Awady here as the leading representative of Islam in Egypt. Pope Shenoba is out of the country and asked Father Zein to represent the Coptic Church. After our last meeting concerning the codex, I felt it necessary to confer with religious leaders about the revelations that may soon be made public. I gave them my personal assurances—as has the professor—that we believe the codex may be authentic.”

May be.
Justine noted the sharp contrast to the conclusions they’d made in the Museum. She glanced at Andrea.

“They have many doubts,” Mostafa continued, “which we may have to live with for now. However, they share my concern that the primary revelations about Mary’s virginity, her Essene upbringing, and the reasons for the family leaving Palestine are shocking and may cause tremendous reverberations throughout the religious world. The ‘twinness’ issue presents even more serious problems.”

“We are delighted, however,” said Father Zein, “with the revelation that the Holy Family fled to Egypt and lived here during Jesus’ formative years. This pleases us enormously. We knew the apostle Mark had begun the church in Alexandria, but now Egypt has an even greater role to play in the development of the teachings of the Church. I’m assured by the Imam that Muslims will also find comfort in a more prominent role for Egypt in the history of their faith.” Father Zein turned to the Imam, who nodded solemnly.

Where is this going? I doubt we’re here to hear glowing reports from these religious leaders. Mostafa could have handled that himself.

“However,” said the Supreme Director.

Here it comes.

“We agree that further shocks to the religious community would be unwise at this time. Relationships among the religions are fragile at best. Acts of religious violence are everywhere.”

Of course, that is why Isaac isn’t here, because he’s a Jew.
Justine could feel herself stiffening as she began to anticipate an agenda that she would find hard to accept.

“Let me explain what these gentlemen have shared with me,” said Ibrahim, glancing toward Andrea and Justine without making eye contact. “They—we—feel that the presence of a female twin of Jesus’ would be unacceptable news at this time.”

“Unacceptable? What do you mean unacceptable?” demanded Andrea.

“Please explain,” said Justine evenly.

Ibrahim flinched and rose haltingly from his seat by the window. He slowly picked up his cane and made his way to the table. “The existence of a twin sister is difficult to interpret,” he said. “While there may be several interpretations, none of them are, shall I say, suitable. Does this mean that the female child was also a child of God? If she was a child of God in the sense that Jesus was, why did He allow her to die?”

“And if Allah didn’t intend for her to die,” interjected Mostafa, “was it a mistake? Allah doesn’t make mistakes.”